


Kneeling

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, No-Reform AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel brushes his master’s hair and dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kneeling

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for buffycuddlespigs’ “Spock/Chekov” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t quite how he thought he’d reach the stars, but now he isn’t sure he’d have it any other way. 

There are streams of light outside the windows, long, blurred white lines, whizzing past at warp speed, so much more _beautiful_ than they ever looked still, even from the hills of Russia. The first time he applied for the space program, he nearly snapped his neck staring up so hard, and then even longer when he was dismissed, not deemed _strong_ enough to handle Earth’s older partners: the space-veterans of _Vulcan._

But Pavel is strong, has the fire in him, even if he was born smaller than his peers, even if his intellect sometimes overshadows his muscles. And when he applied at the embassy, the Vulcans took him quick enough, as feral species prefer lower-ranking, submissive things. He doesn’t care if his planet’s always fighting for dominance, wants to hold it’s own in the stars, and he doesn’t care if the crew he serves amongst has a one-in-seven chance of dipping into a ravenous insanity that could break him in two. All he wanted was the chance to be out in the vastness of space itself, and here, at his Vulcan prince’s feet, he has it. 

He sits on the bed behind his sponsor, his patron, the master to which he bows, and lets the long, silken black hair slither through his fingers. The brush in his other hand glides smoothly down the dark expanse, catching odd glimmers in the passing glow of the windows. Spock’s posture is rigid, regal, like it always is, and even his head is level, though Pavel’s sure that his eyes are down, skimming the essay on his PADD. Spock is a brilliant man, like all the Vulcans Pavel’s ever met, whatever their volatile tendencies, and sometimes, in the dead of night, Pavel steals away these PADDs to devour and learn. He won’t be a body-servant forever, not now that he’s got his foot in the door of starships. But perhaps Spock will help him there in the light of day, as Spock is a kind master. 

Spock tilts his head once, broad shoulders hiking with breath and releasing, toned, green-licked arms lifting to flex at his sides. Pavel stills his strokes, anticipating bed, but then Spock relaxes back into his perch. Pavel resumes his measured strokes, though Spock’s hair has, in fact, been tangle-free for a long while; they both simply seem to enjoy this ritual. It’s soothing, and sometimes, when Pavel lifts up on his knees, he can read the racing-by words on Spock’s screen over Spock’s shoulder. 

While Pavel tucks smooth strands behind Spock’s pointed ear, neatly catching all the strays, Spock idly says, “We will be docking at the Vulcan orbital station tomorrow.” His voice is toneless, just as it usually is, and he doesn’t look back at Pavel while he says it. Whatever his inner flame and genius, Pavel’s rank is still the bottom of the chain. 

Because Spock’s comment could have no purpose but to provoke an answer, Pavel sighs, “I would wery much like to see Vulcan.”

“It is not anything like your Russia,” Spock answers. Pavel’s fingers falter in their task of gathering together enough hair for a thin braid. He had, of course, pictured Vulcan like some twisted form of his homeland, like he does with most things, though he knows Spock’s home is much drier and hotter. What he hadn’t imagined was that Spock would pick up on his mild obsession, and he briefly chastises himself; he must speak of home too much. If he’s going to experience all the universe has to offer, he’ll have to take care not to bore aliens with comparisons to Terra’s greatest land. 

And then, of course, he’s flattered that Spock’s paid enough attention to him to know anything of his tastes and patterns, and he answers with a small smile, “No, I suppose not.”

Then there’s quiet, filled only with the little beeps of Spock’s fingers crossing the PADD whenever he needs to shift its display. Pavel settles into forming a small braid down the middle of Spock’s hair, merely to pass the time. Spock can surely tell what he’s doing and would say if he shouldn’t. It’s a long way before he reaches the bottom, since Spock’s hair reaches past his waist, and then Pavel, in lieu of any ribbon at hand, has to tie the end in on itself. He lays it flat afterwards, checking that he has it perfectly centered; Spock prefers his hair symmetrical. 

Then Pavel retrieves his brush and resumes finger-combing and stroking around the braid’s sides, as he hasn’t been told to stop. Perhaps, soon, his duties will progress to more ship-related work, sorting Spock’s memos and even plotting starcharts, but he knows where he is now and is willing to work his way up. He’s young, after all, and though he’s ever eager to achieve, serving Spock is hardly unpleasant. 

When Spock cranes his neck, his beautiful mane ripples like waves across his back, and he says, deep but with perhaps an edge of true musing, “Perhaps I will bring you to the surface with me.”

Pavel’s heart instantly leaps in his chest. That’s what he wants. He wants to see the light of T’Rukh from the ground, wants to watch the stars from a different configuration, view the grand architecture of another world and see, truly, if there isn’t at least _something_ reminiscent of Mother Russia. 

But he restrains that fervent zeal when he says, “I would like that.”

One of Spock’s hands reaches back. It lands on Pavel’s, long fingers easily encircling his wrist, and Pavel shivers; it’s an intimate touch for a Vulcan, and he knows it. He can feel the heat, the slight spark of Spock’s mind, as his hands are beckoned away. They fall to his lap, and Spock, hair gloriously groomed, rises from the bed. He places his PADD on the nightstand and strolls to the full-length mirror against the metal groove by his desk, while Pavel stays kneeling on the bed and watches. He wonders, not for the first time, if this will be the night that he’s asked to stay, temper away any desires so that the build to the wrath of pon farr is not so vivid. Spock, once so very cautious—especially around humans—has been slipping lately. Pavel can still feel the ghost of touch on his wrist. 

But Spock, after brushing his hair over his shoulder to examine Pavel’s work, merely nods to the door. Hiding the usual disappointment, Pavel accepts the dismissal. He slips to the floor and places the brush on Spock’s counter. 

He leaves for the night without another word, though he dreams, on the way to his adjacent room, of serving Spock beneath the Vulcan stars, braiding Spock’s elegant hair over bare skin in a heady afterglow, on blankets brought from home


End file.
